Death of the Gods
by Sa Rart
Summary: A series of oneshots that tell of the gods' fall at the hands of the Titans. Their thoughts, their regrets, their feelings... For the gods, too, have qualities that redeem them, despite their faults.
1. Anger

**Disclaimer: I do not own PJO.**

**Author's Note: This is a series of oneshots featuring the death of the Olympians during the Titan War. A little depressing, but I had to write it. I will go through all of the Olympians, as well as any minor gods any of you guys ask for in reviews. A little incentive, hmm? Thanks for reading!**

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**Death of the Gods**

**Chapter I: Ares**

**~By Sa Rart~**

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Ares ran, the heavy tread of his boots sinking deep into the swamps of Florida before he yanked them out again for another step. His breath came in deep gasps. Even the God of War got winded after running.

Behind him, Ares could hear the lusty howls of the hellhounds and spawns; he could hear the pounding, earth-shaking footsteps of the Laistragonians. But his acute senses could also pick up five other beings; Coeius, Phoibe, Krios, Hyperion, and Thea. Five Titans, all after him.

In a way, it was flattering, how much they had put together to defeat him. As the god of war, Ares grew more and more powerful as the war reached its climax; at one point, his powers had even surpassed those of Zeus himself. The power had started to peter out a little lately, but it was still at the peak of its force. Even so, he was more powerful than he had even been since World War I.

But in his heart, Ares knew the power of the Titans. His strength had grown over the past six thousand years; the Titans' had been building for thousands of millennia, since the reign of Gaia and Ouranos. Even while imprisoned, their strength had grown. And five of them would be too much, even for him.

Hyperion and Thea were married, and were two of the most powerful Titans in existence. Hyperion ruled over Tartarus, and even now, with his realm buried under miles of rock after Gaia collapsed it, he retained his powers of chaos. He had the ability to warp matter and consciousness beyond recognition. Nobody knew exactly what his wife could do, beyond summoning light and Stymphilian birds, but all the legends agreed it was powerful. Hyperion's true form was that of an armored warrior in full body armor; none of him was visible but his eyes, hands, and face. He generally took the form of a twenty-foot tall Greek warrior with tan skin and a mighty broadsword. Thea's form was that of a silvery-blonde-haired woman with pure white skin, swathed in a green cloak, and her engineered form was a photocopy of that.

Krios had been the Titan of the sky after Ouranos's downfall, and his true form was that of an immense man with leathery gray skin, huge batlike wings, and immense claws that resembled a pair of swords fused with a scorpion's pincers. They were sharper than metal, and felt no pain when struck. He dressed in a gray loincloth that was impossible to tell apart from his skin. Although he appeared as a handsome Caucasian man during most days, he wore a guise of his true form during battle.

Coeius and Phoibe ruled together over the dead, whose forms resembled flickering specters, dead white in color but for their flaming eyes. They wore guises of pale-skinned, immensely tall humans, and fought with axes made of bone. But for their hair, they were difficult to tell apart. They were of medium power – for Titans, at least.

Stymphilian birds were ahead of him, formed into an impassable wall of metal and bird flesh. Ares summoned a burst of fire and burnt them to charred carcasses and kept running.

But with a rustle of leathery skin and a blood-chilling cry, Krios swept from the sky in front of Ares, blocking his path. Ares, gritting his teeth, spun in a half-turn, half facing Krios and half facing the approaching horde of monsters.

Laistragonians sprang from a grove of mangrove trees, shouting war cries. Ares's immense sword swept through the air with breathtaking speed, spilling the giant's intestines onto the ground in a viscous, disgusting pile, where they disappeared along with the bodies. But the next wave, of hellhounds and spawn, were upon him. Fire burned in their eye sockets; Claws of Krios glinted at the spawn's paws. As one, they leapt.

Ares began to spin, feet moving in an intricate pattern of steps that increased his momentum with every revolution. Sword and the dagger that he clenched in his other hand sliced spawn and hound up with barely a pause, obliterating them easily.

But now metal feathers sprang from the sky, just as flaming bronze balls leapt from the hands of the Laistragonians. Twin specters appeared from the mangroves; Coeius and Phoibe. With them came a mob of undead mortals, howling as they charged.

Skeletal warriors from every age and time sprang from the ground and engaged them as Ares backed away, putting his back against a cluster of trees almost as tall as he was. The five Titans moved in, swamp and trees warping to jellylike pink goo as Hyperion triggered his powers. Ares prayed that the enchantments on his blades would protect his swords from it.

Thea gestured, and trees lifted their roots and transformed into immense humanoids of wood and leaf, brandishing sharpened wooden blades and clubs. In response, Ares sent a mental summons, and an immense tank burst out of the swamp, Phobos and Deimos upon it. They drew spears, and the war chariot engaged the tree-warriors, shifting from tank to chariot to motorcycle to plane and to helicopter; whichever was the most suited to the current combat.

Krios lunged from the skies, twin claws fastening upon Ares's sword as his clawlike feet dug into Ares's side. Gritting his teeth, the Black Warrior flung the Titan aside in a single twist of brute force, catapulting him into Phoibe, knocking her aside briefly. But her husband lunged, bone axe chopping viciously to cut into Ares's left hand. The dagger dropped as ichor dripped from the wound.

With a mighty roar, the God of War sprang forward, swinging his sword with unmatchable fury. It bit into Coeius's hip, then disengaged and knocked the axe from his hand. The sword then swung back and batted the immense axe forward, sending it flying into Krios's wing. The Titan roared, stepping back.

But Ares wasn't finished yet. He sidestepped Hyperion's swing, hurling a blast of fire to keep Thea back, then swung. The sword cleaved through Coeius's skull, and the Titan dropped like a stone. One down.

Phoibe had regained her feet, and howled with fury at her husband's killer. Ares lashed out with a barehanded backhand, sending her reeling backwards with a crushed windpipe, collapsing next to her husband.

Thea and Hyperion attacked in tangent, swinging swords in perfect unison at opposite sides of Ares's head. He ducked, letting their blades clash together, then jabbed with the point of his sword into Hyperion's armpit, biting through armor with ease. But Krios, who had been forgotten, swooped down, claws biting into Ares's shoulder and knee. He grunted in pain, dropping the sword as his nerves screamed in protest.

Phobos, his enemies dead, tossed his spear to his father, who caught it and braced it against his hip. But Thea pointed an arm, and an immense hand made of the mud and watery swamp, swung up, catching the war chariot and, with both brothers inside, squeezed, reducing both immortals and tank to a pile of crushed metal before melting back into the swamp.

Three Titans remained, against a wounded Ares. But both sides stayed fifty or so yards apart, taking a breather.

Ares leaned against a tree, tempted to flee. But he knew that the three Titans would just stalk him, finishing him off at will. But with his wounds, he could not fight as he had before. He was doomed.

Ares half-closed his eyes, wondering what he wished he had done. He wished that he could have made amends with Perseus Jackson, the greatest warrior of the age. With training, Ares could have made him the greatest fighter of all time. He wished that he had cared more, for his children and his lover, Aphrodite. He wished that he had built something up in his life, not just tore down everything.

And from these wasted wishes rose a sense of remorse and grief, greater than any he had ever experienced in the past. And from it, the Black Warrior, Ares, the God of War, Mars, drew power. In a single motion he scooped his sword up from the ground and lunged at the Titans.

The spear he swung with all his strength at Krios. The Titan jerked aside at the last moment, and instead of impaling him through his black heart, the spear pinned his huge wing to a tree, tearing through skin, muscle, and bone on its way. The huge Titan screamed in pain, writhing from side to side in agony.

And Ares, a blur of motion, swung the sword in a dazzling combination swiping Thea with such force that she tumbled off her feet, out of the fight for a brief moment. And in that moment, Ares leapt at Hyperion, stabbing him through to the heart. The mighty Titan of chaos shuddered and died.

The Black Warrior pulled his sword out and advanced on Thea, who drew her curved sword. With a quick blast of light, she briefly blinded him, and then cut a deep wound across his shin before smashing a knee into his groin. As he reeked backwards, she punched him full in the face, breaking his nose.

But Ares recover and summoned his own burst of flame before attacking with all his rapidly draining strength. He cut her across her cheek, her thigh, her arm, her chest, all shallow but long. Ichor streamed from her many wounds.

But just then, Krios, still flailing in agony, unconsciously smashed the edge of his wing into Ares's jaw. The brief distraction was all Thea needed. She lunged, blood and rage distorting her beautiful features, to slash the blade across his throat. Ichor bled out, in a constant stream.

"Die slowly," hissed Thea, fury written across every line in her body.

And Ares fell, landing with a colossal crash into the swamp. Some instinct caused him to bring his sword up across his chest, clasp his hands over it, then to give in to the pain and the abyss.

But for the first time in his long life, despite the incredible pain raging through his body, Ares was at peace.


	2. Hate

**Author's Note: Thanks to Proud Asian Weirdo Kid, WindowChild, Defiatos X, xXxChannySterlingxXx, imorgan13, Nicobeth-Annico, Annabethrules4665 (),MyPenIsSharperThanYourSword, huh? (), and naoman16 for their reviews. **

**Also note that this chapter, despite being an AU, uses some things from TLO – such as Maria di Angelo's death. It just worked out well, so I used it.**

**Thanks!**

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**Death of the Gods**

**Chapter II: Hades**

**~By Sa Rart~**

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**Year 1 of the Titans/Year 2010 of the Gods**

**Friday, April 13****th**

**Present Day**

The first rays of light were touching down on the bronze head of Talos when Hades arrived. He was tailed by a few hundred skeletons wearing Nazi uniforms – all of them looking even more battered than he was.

The war between the Titans and the Olympians was worsening; with the loss of Ares, the Olympians were at the Titan's mercy. Without Ares to manipulate battles, the Titans virtually controlled every major battle that the gods engaged in. The only way to cope with that was to fight enough battles at once so Atlas simply couldn't control them all – but that meant splitting up. Which was why Hades had been forced to condemn himself to the godsforsaken wastelands of the Southeast.

Thea and Hyperion generally ran things in this area, but Ares had badly wounded Hyperion before being destroyed himself. At least, Hades admitted to himself, the hotheaded idiot had done some damage before being destroyed. Coeius and Phoibe were both out for good, while Krios and Hyperion wouldn't be able to battle for some months left.

Hades had been expecting boredom in the extreme and long months of inactivity as the fight raged in the north. What he had not been expecting was a sudden ambush by Thea the first day he arrived. He had lost most of his army, and retreated in disarray from the forests to the desert, with Thea and her army striking almost every hour of the day, never giving him a chance to recover. He had once held an army of over fifty thousand; now, he had less than five hundred.

This time, he knew that she would not use hit-and run tactics. She still had most of her army intact. Hades was not, as Athena would put it, making a tactical retreat; he was making a last stand.

Why it was this spot that drew him, he could not have said. He had simply felt a need to come here, and followed that whim. Why a defective head of Talos sitting on the ground should grab his attention, he had no clue.

The massive deity sat down on the head, sighing in relief as tense muscles relaxed. He closed his eyes, savoring the faint warmth as the sun broke over the horizon. It was a warmth he had not felt for the past five thousand years, since he had been exiled from Olympus. Though he would never admit it, Hades had missed the open skies and the vast prairies. He longed to see the mountains and the valleys once again, to feel the warmth of the day and the cool of the night.

Perhaps, he mused, it was this that had made others think of him as a cruel god. For Hades had always been bitter about his long exile, unhappy with his lot as god of the dead. He had not bothered to hide it, but rather just let it all out, in bursts of rage and sarcastic comments that left others speechless with its anger. Had it helped? No. Had he cared? No, not really. For he was a god. He was above the petty feelings and desires that mortals felt. Wasn't he?

He had power, yes, and riches galore. But that didn't really mean anything to him. He would have given it all up to simply live life once more, like he once did long ago.

That was the problem. The gods didn't live. They ruled, they fought, they argued, but so few of them really lived life. They didn't laugh, they didn't play, they simply did their jobs. They had forgotten what it meant to live.

No. It is not _they_, it is _us_. I can no longer get away with pretending I am somehow different, someone aloof from the others. Our mistakes have plagued us for three thousand years, but we banished them from our prescence. Now, they have returned to haunt us. It is past time we looked at them in the eye and acknowledged them, and then changed them for the better. The time has come.

What were his mistakes? Let's see… hunger for better things, lusts for women, and desire for power among the gods. He had always known about these things, but never really cared.

But there were other things, too. There had to be. Not even the gods were perfect.

Disregard for others. A desire to hurt, to cause pain. An inability to feel guilt. A lack of feeling in whatever I did.

Yes. These are my flaws. This is what must change. Was there anything else? Sorry – _Is _there anything else?

Grudges.

Hades had always held them, and always assumed that others would. He had never had any doubt, any guilt, about what he did if he could justify it. Even if the justification was untrue.

Take Perseus Jackson, for instance. He had escaped from the Underworld, taken a soul from Hades. He had never forgiven the hero for that. Whenever their paths crossed in later days, Hades had done his best to make the boy's life miserable. But Jackson had never returned his anger, always been civil and kind – well, at least as civil as an ADHD son of Poseidon could ever be. Hades could have learned from him. Did he? Of course not.

And his son, his very own flesh and blood. He had never forgiven him for surviving when his mother died. She had been his love, his passion, and his saving grace. She had brought out the best in him, and he had lover her. She had loved him, too, despite his numerous flaws. So when she died, that same affection extended to his children – at first.

Then Bianca died, and with her died Hades's love once again. She had looked so much like her mother…

And instead of loving Nico all the more for being the last survivor, he began to hate him. Hating him for having friends, for living when his mother and sister died. And Nico had still been there for him, still loved him, and still forgave him – no matter what Hades did to him. Hades had never even referred to him as anything but "you", or "boy".

I'm sorry, Nico. If you can hear me, I'm sorry, my son. Hermes, carry this one last message for me. Zephyr, carry it to my son, and let him know I love him. Tell him this, I beg of you. My last legacy will be love, not hate.

"Hades."

He opened his eyes and beheld the fifteen-foot tall Titaness, scimitar in hand. Behind her stood her army, at least five thousand strong. Walking trees and stones, Stymphilian birds, and creatures forged from the desert itself.

"Thea." Ironic. The Greek word "thea" meant blessing. But the only "blessing" Thea would grant him would be his death.

The Nazi skeletons fired. Bullets flew by the hundreds, burying themselves in wood that could feel no pain, rock that shattered without even knowing it. Thea's creatures were virtually unstoppable. The only way to stop them was to shatter them into so small of pieces they could no longer move.

Thea had leapt, and stood on the head beside Hades now. Both shrank to their human forms to allow room for maneuvering. Thea raised her scimitar, Hades raised his sword.

And they fought, trading blows atop a head that was planted in the desert floor by its own weight. Thea's light twined around them, battling with Hades's darkness for supremacy.

But Hades's darkness, to him, was no longer dark. It bore the light of truth, and the light of love.

So Hades fought, striking with strength that he had never felt before. Strength born from justice and renewing spirit.

But Thea was unmatchable in speed and cunning. She slowly backed him up to the edge of the head, and finally, with the speed of a serpent, knocked the sword from his hands.

"So you will die, alone and friendless, atop a metal head in an eternal desert. Farewell, Hades." Thea smiled and brought her blade down.

"No!"

And a whirling figure dressed in black armor leapt in front of him, blade of Stygian iron stopping Thea's celestial blade long before it reached its target.

It was his son.

Hades did not know how, or why, but he had been given this one last chance to see his son before he died.

But now his son would die.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Thea snarled and slashed and overhand blow that Nico blocked with ease. Then, before he could react, her other hand stabbed out, fingernails hardening before slashing straight through armor, flesh, and then bone, ripping deep into him. Nico staggered backwards and fell beside Hades, blood pouring from his terrible wound.

"NO!"

Hades's shout was anguished and full of pain – feelings that, just a few hours previously, he had been unable to feel. He flung out a hand, and a black spear of energy struck out, and insubstantial spear of thought that was more deadly than a sword. Thea fell back, features contorted as Hades's psychic spear thrust at her consciousness. He knew it wouldn't stop her, but he had earned them a brief respite.

Hades knelt over his son. The wound was fatal, he could see easily. But Nico had chosen his own path, and that was to fight alongside his father. And he now paid the price.

Tears, for the first time in three thousand years, trickled down Hades's cheeks. When Maria had died, all he had felt was rage and helplessness. But he was different now than he had been seventy years ago. Hades spoke the two words that he needed Nico to hear from him.

"My son…"

And Nico managed to look at him, and, despite the pain, smile. The smile of a child who just had his deepest desire granted to him.

"Father…"

And Nico died.

A light shone from behind him, and Maria di Angelo stepped from the air behind Nico.

"Come," she whispered. Nico's shade rose from his body and followed her into the sky. But as she went, Maria looked back at Hades, and in that moment passed a lifetime of feeling and love.

And then she was gone.

Hades turned, calm now, to face the scimitar that curved down towards him. And as it struck, separating atoms themselves, Hades felt no pain. He felt only peace and happiness, and as his body was destroyed, his spirit flew, far into the sky and beyond. One day, he would return, but when he did, it would be to captivity until he was released.

But, even from the cage that he would live in, he could travel. Powerless, sightless, with nothing but the ability to feel, but he would still go.

And when he did, he would feel the light of the sun upon him again. And as he went, the two last words he had spoken echoed within him, no longer with anguish, but with peace and love.

_My son…_


	3. Arrogance

Author's Note: Thanks to ChannySterling, caitlumms, Aelia Nightshade, MyPenIsSharperThanYourSword, ArmyNinja980 (), sonofposeidon1995, and dmur446 for their reviews. All of you made my day, a hundred times over. I apologize for the _incredibly _long wait – but I finally managed to pull this out. Enjoy!

**Death of the Gods**

Chapter III: Artemis

~Sa Rart~

In her time, the immortal goddess had fought thousands of battles, and led countless hunts to victory. She had battled against beasts that were thought to exist only in legends and nightmares, from the snow lions of Nepal to the trolls of Norway. She had narrowly escaped with her life – divine goddess though she was – on occasions such as the Anubites of Egypt and the yeti of the Himalayas. None had ever had an impression as large as the fortress looming before her.

She stood in the outermost edge of the garden of Hesperids, gazing up at the darkened citadel. Lightning swirled around it, a supernatural vortex born of a thousand years of pent-up fury and rage. For the first time in her reign as a goddess, Artemis felt the cold grip of fear deep within her. This was no ordinary enemy. This was the might of the Titans.

Quietly, like the huntress she was, the goddess stalked through the garden. Her cloak, draped around her slender form, shifted color and texture, almost imperceptibly, as she moved through the ancient garden, crowned in the glory of the sunset. The immense guardian of the apples, Ladon did not notice her, and, for their part, the five – no, four – Hesperids were seemingly absent. No eyes, even immortal ones, could see her now.

She arrived at the mountain and began to climb, terror slowly mounting in her core. Ordinarily, even she wouldn't dare enter the dark fortress on Mount Tamalipis, extenuating circumstances deemed it necessary. The three Elder Cyclopses – as well as a host of lesser ones – had been captured in one of Hephaestus's forges while the god himself was absent. Her orders were to free them, using whatever skills necessary, to make sure the Titans wouldn't have the chance to take advantage of their immense database of knowledge and skill.

Of course, if that failed, she was to take the most rapid and permanent course of action available to her, and make sure, once and for all, that the Titans would never reap the benefits of the Cyclopses' knowledge. But she found the idea of killing the Elder Cyclopses in cold blood distasteful.

When she finally reached the base of the fortress, the goddess didn't stop. She continued up the dark wall of Orithyses, clambering up the smooth stone wall, catlike in grace and skill. Over the years, she had learned one critical fact of stealth: the one direction nobody ever looks is up.

It wasn't long before she made it to the roof. She crouched there for a moment, sleek and agile as a panther. Her eyes scanned the wall. Then she leapt, landing on the roof of the next turret over. The sentry below looked around, but he didn't look up.

His mistake.

Artemis drew her bow, elegant swan fletching brushing gently against her cheek as she sighted and aimed. The arrow sprang forward, burying itself perfectly in the sentry's throat. He died instantly and silently, falling with hardly a sound – just as she had planned.

Now she leapt again, landing on another turret – this one with a window. She swung inside, cloak billowing behind her like a raven's wing, dark as the stone that surrounded her. The only creature in the room was a startled telekhine, who only had time to stare in shock before a blow from her fist sent him sprawling. She knelt over him and ruthlessly snapped his neck to the side. He vaporized, leaving no blood, no dust, and no trace.

The goddess pulled out two small knives and carefully pinned her cloak to her boots. What she was about to do was an untested method – but with her skills and her cloak's magic, she was fairly confident it would work. Reaching for the wall, Artemis clambered up the side again, fingers and toes finding the tiniest of handholds in the rock. Her cloak, held fast by the daggers, shifted color to match the ceiling.

It was kept dark in the fortress, wooden corridors and black stone wall only illuminated by flickering torches set into the wall. The darkness aided her now. Slowly and carefully, she climbed through the fortress, splayed spiderlike along the ceilings of the corridors, passing humans and monsters alike. Not one of them saw her.

To her delight, she made it all the way to the prison level. It was a room, hundreds of feet long, and filled to the brim with steel cages, each chained to one another. The cages were about five feet long, wide, and tall – far too small for anyone's comfort. In front of the cages, on the bottom floor, stood a squad of very bored Scythian dracanae, lounging around on the floor. Before they even noticed her, Artemis dropped off the ceiling, catlike, cloak billowing behind her, wrenching the knives free. She caught them as she fell, and hurled them towards the startled snake women. Two of them fell. Then, before the startled remainder of the squad could react, her bow was out and singing, and all eight remaining troops fell.

Artemis ran down the hallway, bow still out and at the ready. She passed row after row of empty steel cages, uncountable in number. They seemed to stare at her as she passed, and as she looked, Artemis saw a man in each one of them, desperate and forsaken. It could all easily come to pass. She was unable to suppress a slight shiver; the fact that the Titans even _thought_ they neededso many cages was a little frightening. She redoubled her pace, searching furiously for any trace of the three Cyclopses

Then footsteps abruptly echoed down the stairs, rapid and numerous. She turned, sprinting for the other staircase – but footsteps from that side told her she could find no escape route there. She was cornered, and all she could do was wait, bow out, arrow nocked to the string.

Then, with a yell, a dozen demigods – mostly children of the minor gods – burst through the stairwell, huge shields poised in front of their bodies and faces. Behind them strode Atlas, looking smug, dressed for battle in burnished steel armor and an immense javelin slung across his back.

From the other staircase came a dozen mortal mercenaries. They held machine guns in their hands, poised, and from the golden glow her keen eyes picked up coming out of the gun barrels, they were loaded with celestial bronze.

Before they could so much as twitch, Artemis stuck. Her foot lashed out to strike one of the steel cages with incredible force, ripping it free of the ground and sending it flying through the air. It plowed through the startled mercenaries, knocking them off their feet.

Whoever had planned this ambush had planned well, Artemis realized. Her own celestial bronze weapons were useless against the mortals, and since their own weapons were celestial, she could not turn them against them. The unknown tactician had only forgotten one thing.

She was the immortal goddess Artemis, leader of the Hunt, guardian of the Wild. She did not need weapons to be deadly.

In two long strides she was amongst them. Before they could react, she kicked out, and a man's head snapped back, his neck broken. Seizing his gun, she smashed the ironclad base down upon another's head. He dropped like a stone.

When another man brought up his gun, she kicked low and hard, catching him in the man in the groin. As he doubled over, she smashed her knee into his face. The next seized her shoulder from behind; in reply, she smashed her head backwards, driving his nose up into his brain. The fifth lunged at her; her uppercut caught him in the chin, and, as his head snapped back, her corkscrew punch shattered his windpipe. As the sixth moved in, she leapt, bringing her heel smashing down atop his head in an axe kick, splitting his skull. With a back kick, she caught the next one unprepared, driving into the flesh of his stomach. He went down.

The next two lunged in synch; she grabbed their heads and smashed them together, hard; they dropped instantly. The remaining three hesitated. It was their fatal mistake. Mustering her strength, she grabbed the steel cage and smashed down with all of her might. The cage knocked them flat, and then the steel bars went clean through them, killing them instantly, although nowhere near as cleanly as the sentries upstairs.

The demigods had charged – but unlike the mercenaries, her weapons were fully functional against this opponent. She fired three shots, rapidly; to her surprise, the large shields neatly slid up and interlocked, creating a near-impenetrable shield-wall. Her arrows lodged in the thick wood.

Well. Time for another approach, then.

She jumped neatly over top the startled demigods; before they could turn their lances on her, she landed behind them. The lances and shields – perfect weapons against archers or fast-moving opponents – were completely useless, rendering their wielders incredible vulnerable. Her knives scythed out, cutting into their backs. It wasn't a fight as much as it was a slaughter.

"Foolish." Artemis looked at Atlas, still lounging on the stairwell, and put every last bit of contempt into her voice as she could. "It would take hundreds of them to take _me _on."

Atlas smirked. "They were never meant to. It was easy enough to use them as a simple means of keeping you occupied. The Lord Kronos has better things to do then sit around waiting for you to arrive." He started down the steps towards her, moving with the total confidence of the arrogant.

Her lips twitched in a smile, and the bow was up and singing again. Twelve shots – the remainder of her quiver – fired in six seconds, all aimed at different critical targets on his body. To her surprise, he whirled with contemptuous ease, dodging most and using the javelin to knock the others aside. She shrugged it off; she was more than a match for Atlas, even without arrows. On Orithyses, she had been drained and exhausted. Now, she was fresh and rested – fighting mortals as a warm up was far more to her taste than holding up the sky for weeks. She settled into a crouch, knives held expertly, one forward and low, the other high and back.

A whistling of air – that was her only warning. With incredible reflexes, she managed to twitch aside, and the scythe cut into the floor, leaving a deep gash. But while she was briefly distracted, the javelin of Atlas cut into the back of her thigh, releasing a spray of ichor. Feigning weakness, she sank to the ground. There was a chance they would just cut her down, but she knew Kronos and Atlas. They were arrogant, and liked to gloat before destroying their opponents.

"You were as predictable as you were easy to bear," Kronos told her, a sneer creeping up the side of the face he used. The scythe in his hand seemed to quiver, eager to reap her blood. "We knew of your arrogance, your pride that wouldn't allow you to stay away. Sooner or later, we knew you would try to rescue the Elder Cyclopses. It was simple to move them to the tower – the last place you would ever look."

Arrogant? They were the ones that were being arrogant, she thought with a fiery burst of anger. But a seed of doubt was sown. She recalled the countless jackalopes now roaming forlornly across the world, men who had simply beheld her Hunt. She remembered the helicopter – with its accompanying men – that she had transformed into the flock of ravens. She had looked down on them. They were men, after all. But even so, they were people. They had the right to live as thinking, (semi)intelligent beings. In her pride, she had not seen it. In her arrogance, she had not seen it.

Perhaps it was always that way, that the prideful were the last to realize the depths of their pride. Pride all too easily became arrogance, which clouded judgment, defied reason. And in her arrogance, she had failed to see it.

What else had her pride blinded her to?

Friendship. Caring. Compassion. She had not felt these things since the days of Orion, when she was still young. She had loved him, despite her vows of chastity. When she had been forced to kill him, something had broken inside of her. She had closed herself off to the world, leaving the Hunt for a time, wandering the wilderness alone. She walled herself off there, remaining separate, aloof. Standing atop mountains, it was easy to think oneself better than the antlike mortals her keen eyes beheld thousands of feet below.

Even to her brother, who had done so much for her, who had helped to save her from her capture atop Mount Tamalipis, she remained aloof. She treated him like trash, despite his jokes, his casual caring, his love and caring that came so easily. The only one she really had loved was herself. It was easy, all alone, to forget about the bonds that mattered so much. From that secluded state came loneliness, then came the gradually introverted thoughts. From that came pride, then came arrogance. She had fallen into a trap of her own doing, not the one that Atlas had set.

But now, thanks to Atlas, she was free of the veil of her pride. His arrogance mirrored her own, but she was through with that now. Even if her life was now counted in minutes, not years, it was time enough to change.

"Arrogance," she mused aloud, eyes closing for a moment. Her fatal flaw. She had searched for thousands of years for it, and, ironically, it was finally revealed to her as the shears neared her string.

"Sorry?" Atlas leaned over, cupping a hand around his ear condescendingly. "Didn't quite catch that."

Her eyes snapped open. "You are as predictable as you are easy to beat," she told him. He lunged, snarling in anger. She sprang, landing on his shoulders in a crouch. Instinctively, he straightened with a yell, and she leapt up. The immense strength of Atlas, coupled with her powerful legs, propelled her towards the ceiling hard. She smashed through the thick wood, catching on the floor of the next story up. Below her, Kronos roared in rage, and she yanked her legs up, feeling the wind hiss beneath her as the scythe swung, cutting through the air itself.

_It was simple enough to move them to the top of the tower – the last place you would look_. In his own arrogance, Kronos had betrayed to her his own plans. The downside to being a villain, she supposed, was that you could never show off your brilliance. His loss, her gain. She sprinted, ignoring the pain from the wound in her thigh. Whatever else happened, she would make sure the Elder Cyclopses made it out.

She passed demigods and mortals at top speed, who stared at her in shock. None attacked before she shot past them at top speed.

And then the floor behind her exploded. Artemis shielded her face as rubble flew everywhere. She heard a heavy _thud _as something landed behind her. Out of pure instinct, she ducked, and the scythe whirled over head. She lashed out with a foot, but it was like kicking a house for all the good it did. Kronos merely growled and lashed out again. She grabbed the scythe by the shaft and tried to twist it away from him, but he swung, and, for all her strength, she was tossed backwards like a rag doll, helpless against the might of the Lord of Titans.

"Die," Kronos rasped, striding towards her. Gone was his arrogance. He had seen what she could do. But as he swung, she rolled aside and ran for all she was worth.

She hit a set of stairs and transformed into a falcon, hurtling upwards. As she hit the hall again, she was a cheetah, sprinting at top speed. A half-blood stepped in the way, and she leapt clean over him.

Artemis shifted back into her normal form as she entered the tower, ready for anything, bow drawn.

"Lady Artemis?" The goddess glanced to the side. There was another steel cage, bolted to the ground. Inside were the three Cyclopses, hunched up in the tiny space. The first one was grasping the bars, eye filled with hope. "We didn't think you would come!" Wonder and amazement had entered his brutish face, making it light up.

Artemis ran over and slashed at the thick chain, but it held. "You must get out!" hissed. "Kronos –"

Footsteps. Atlas stood in the doorway, smiling. "Time's up." He strode forward, javelin at the ready.

For a moment, Artemis froze. But she knew what she had to do. Turning, she slashed, cutting through the iron chain in a single swipe. "Go, go, GO!" she yelled, panic clouding her voice. The Cyclopses didn't need telling twice. They ran, vaulting out the window, and, hopefully, away. She knew Apollo waited outside to take them away.

But as she turned back to Atlas, he stabbed, ramming the javelin up and through her ribcage. She fell to her knees, lifeblood gushing out of her. Atlas turned to leave after the Cyclopses. But Artemis's rapidly weakening fingers grasped a knife and hurtled it, catching him in the heel.

With a roar of anger, the javelin struck again, for the last time. It rammed through her collarbone, down into her heart. Atlas twisted it, hard, then released it, letting it stay embedded.

"You know," he said conversationally, leaning against the wall, "you could have escaped as soon as you got out of the basement. Out of curiosity, why did you choose to die instead?"

She closed her eyes as her life force ebbed away. "Some things," she whispered, "are worth dying for."


	4. Pride

Heh. And I thought the LAST update was a long time. What is it now - two, three years later? Time flies on falcons' wings, indeed.

I know the series is long since ended, but I'll post these, anyways. If a single person enjoys it or is touched, then my work will be well worth it.

Enjoy.

* * *

Claws scraped on stone and metal; unearthly shrieks and bellows echoed through the dark tunnels, lit only by the fires of the forges that roared in the heart of the chambers, where the great beast struggled in vain against the weight of Mount Etna itself, straining to join the hordes that rampaged through the labyrinthine passages within the ancient stone.

It was a scene straight from Morpheus's most terrible nightmares. The golden-bronze plating of the hideously disjointed automatons was red in the light of the pillars of flames that sporadically sprouted from the ground, eating up monsters and machines alike. The horrific engines of war hacked with swords and axes, spraying blood and gore and golden dust, even as their limbs and bodies were torn asunder by the teeth and the claw of the creatures that had forced their way past the forge's mighty walls. Hellhounds and Cyclopses were jointed by snake-women and grotesque masses of flesh and gone to whom no name can be put.

They are simply called monsters.

But the true monster, the monster to be feared - he was neither raging beneath the volcanic fires nor snarling in the darkness of the halls. He stood at the top of the great stairway, watching with a curious mixture of pleasure and pain as the screams of the dying sounded below him.

His name was Prometheus, and he was the creator of the world.

"Bronze," the creature said, amusement in his voice. "He uses bronze still?" He chuckled dryly and shook his head in disbelief. "And they call me old fashioned."

The automatons, slowly yet surely, were pushing the yammering hordes of monsters backwards. They simply did not die. As monsters bled and died on the ground, blood dripping freely from damaged limbs, the nightmarish machines simply tore off the useless appendage and struck again, dull malice sparking in their dull eyes.

"The world, in all of its complexity, was brought forth from the chaos in the beginning," murmured Prometheus. "We understand it all. From the stars to the seas, from the earth to the sky - the mysteries have been solved, my dear lame forge-god. We understand the shape of the world, in ways that even we never believed to be possible. Bronze and steel, copper and orichalcum - even the lost metals of the world are nothing compared to the will and power that is humanity. Have you not seen what they are capable of learning?"

Metal creaked painfully, and another automaton collapsed, eyes fading to dull brass. Steam hissed from its ruined joints, and the monsters around it leapt back with a cry of pain as the hot gas scorched their skin. It cooled on their blades and claws and on the automatons' metal hides, leaving water that dripped with their sweat and blood to the stone underneath them, hissing as it melded with the sulfurous gases that bubbled from cracks in the mountain. A hellhound staggering backwards, blood gushing from its shoulder; the automaton that stepped forward to engage the Tartarian spawn simply ignored the gashes in its metallic body and decapitated the beast with a single vicious strike.

"It's all here," the Titan said. "One must simply know how to use it. Water. Sulfur. Bronze. All the parts are here - it becomes simply a matter of power. The power to break unbreakable bonds. The power to create - and the power to destroy. The only remaining factor is that of energy - and that I can provide in ample quantity."

The massively built Titan raised a mighty arm, palm open. Golden energy blazed like sunlight through the chamber - striking not at the automatons, but at the clouds of steam, splitting drop from drop, piece from piece, atom from atom.

Green veins crept across the burnished golden surfaces of the automatons. They did not stop moving forward, singleminded in their purpose. They did not notice that their joints withered and crunched with their movement. Even when their legs collapsed from beneath them, and steam poured in vaporous clouds from their bodies, they dragged themselves forward on crumbling arms, eyes burning for the final instant before their eyes went out forever.

"Marvelous. These were terrifying creatures, dear Hephaestus." Through the ruin and the shattered remains of his army Prometheus strode, unaffected the sight of death around him. "Truly, these beings were terrifying. But there is no great secret to be sought after it has been discovered. Surely even you know the formula. Automatons to produce steam - or, more precisely, water vapor. Water can be split into hydrogen and oxygen - the oxygen is for breathing, the hydrogen to bond with the sulfur in the volcano. Sulfur and hydrogen become sulfuric acid. When sulfuric acid and water vapor react on the surface of exposed bronze - ". Prometheus shrugged and kicked away the crumbling remains of an automaton. "As soon as your creatures were damaged enough to have their inner workings exposed, they were vulnerable. Such is the power of creation."

From the shadows came a massive hiss of metal on metal, and the monsters drew back in fear. But the Titan merely smiled sadly. "Even your greatest creations are not immune."

The volcano shuddered as Talos stepped forth.

To say that it was immense would be akin to calling atom small. There was simply no way for the human mind to comprehend it. It could pluck the spire from the Empire State. It could walk through the Lakes without its head ever dipping below the water. And when it raised its mighty arm, the volcano trembled from its weight.

And then it stuck.

Typhon himself shuddered beneath the force of the blow. Stone splintered and cracked as the gargantuan bronze blade crashed into the earth, sending shockwaves rippling through the air. Monsters were blown aside from the wind pressure alone. But the Titan was unmoved. And as ever, he spoke softly - whether musing to himself or speaking to the absent Olympian, it could not be said.

"Density," Prometheus said. "Size is irrelevant." He considered that for a moment, then corrected himself. "Perhaps not irrelevant. But it is not the most important factor. When water is poured upon stone, it will be the water that moves aside, every time. Whether it is a droplet or a river does not matter. It would take an ocean's worth before a diamond will begin to crack." Prometheus looked up at the giant of bronze. "And you, my friend, are no ocean."

The giant struck again, sweeping its blade from side to side, and monsters screamed as they were swept over the edge of the wall, falling like rag to the lava far below. Prometheus merely stepped aside. "I am a primordial force," he rumbled. "I crafted man from clay. Who are you to think that you could defeat me?"

The giant stuck again - and this time, Prometheus did not move aside. With one hand, he reached up and caught the blade. "Enough," he growled. "I tire of you."

One moment, he was a mere man in a suit, black and white with a blood-red tie. In the next, he swelled to massive size, muscles straining, jaw jutting out. Clay formed around him, shaping itself into crude armor - but no, not armor. He did not need protection. It was merely a second skin, decorated with the images of all he had ever done. It told the story of creation and the story of the fire he gifted to man; it showed the punishment he had endured for millennia. And though he was just ten meters tall to the giant's thousand, he shone with power in a way at a mere automaton never could. He was beyond machine. Beyond men. Beyond even the gods.

One burly hand seized the blade at the tip and shoved it firmly into the ground. The Titan gestured; the rock swelled to cover Talos's blade, melding with the mountain itself. The giant tugged at the blade absentmindedly, but it had eyes only for the Titan. It barely noticed that the sword was stuck.

"I would have expected a more intelligent creation from you, Hephaestus," said the Titan distastefully. "This is nothing more than a brute. I created man. Is this what you thought was a worthy successor?" He strode up the trapped blade, using the massive weapon as a stairway to the giant. "I am disappointed."

The giant raised a massive hand and struck. Prometheus leapt forward - and instead of crushing the Titan, Talos struck his own sword. Both the sword and the hand shrieked in protest, and the giant emotionlessly yanked its hand free, ignoring the warped metal of the sword and the massive crease in its hand.

"The old paradox," said Prometheus, amused. "Your sword is unstoppable. Your hand is immovable. And do you know what happens when an immovable object is struck by an unstoppable force?" Again, he stepped aside, and again the giant's hand struck the sword, damaging both. Again, the giant ignored it and raised its arm to strike again.

"There are several answers. The first answer is that there is no answer." The hand smashed down on the sword again, and Prometheus lashed out, driving the giant's hand deeper into its sword. "Philosophically, that is correct. In practice, it is impossible. The most likely scenario is deflection. Force follows the path of least resistance." As the giant lashed out again, Prometheus knocked the blow aside, and the hand struck the floor instead. "But," the Titan added, "sometimes that is impossible. And in that scenario, there is a single correct answer."

Talos raised its arm above its head, its face set in harsh lines - it had never been designed for freedom of expression. It was a machine, and nothing more. There was no variance, no unpredictability. It had strength, and nothing more.

"Either the force is not unstoppable," said the Titan, narrowing his eyes, "or the object is not immovable." One of his massive hands clenched into a fist. "Come, creature. I will end your pitiful existence."

The hand struck out - the last time that it would ever do so.

Prometheus seized the massive hand and twisted it viciously to the side. The bronze did not break - but the joints were simply not designed for that kind of movement. Something had to give - either the metal, the joints, or Talos itself. And neither the metal nor the joints would break. Prometheus twisted, and the giant toppled sideways, hitting the floor with a crash that shook the mountain.

"In the fires of Mount Etna, you were forged," Prometheus snarled. "And in the flames of that same mountain, you will be destroyed!" With a grunt of effort, the Titan swung the giant around, - metal shrieking as it scraped over the stone - and slammed the giant into the side of the chamber. Stone crumbled and broke, and the red fire shone ever brighter as the gap widened. Talos lashed out blindly, and Prometheus grunted as he was struck with the force of a skyscraper. But his body did not break, and though the stone beneath his feet was beaten down with the impact, he did not fall.

"Tonight," the Titan bellowed, "you will take Typhon's place in the flames!" Again, the Creator struck, and the crevice broke open. Talos's head and upper body hung in midair in the heart of the volcano, high above the pit of lava where the forge fires roared. The remaining hordes of monsters clustered on the stairways and the passages, watching in stupefied awe as their master smashed Talos against the mountain.

Prometheus seized the massive sword that was driven into the ground and whipped it around, setting it firmly against his shoulder. "Behold!" he roared. "The end of the Fourth Age!" He vaulted into the air and hurled the sword downwards at the floor beneath the giant. The entire section of the floor broke away, and, with a roar of fury and despair, Talos was plunged over the edge and into the volcano where he fell for an agonizing three seconds before he was plunged into the magma.

And then the volcano was transformed into Hell.

Clouds of smoke billowed from below, and Prometheus shielded his eyes as burning ash and soot burned holes in the clay and in his skin. Talos was waist-deep in the lava and sinking ever deeper, bellowing, swinging its limbs wildly, sending splashes of red-hot lava everywhere. Somewhere below him raged the storm giant, chained beneath the earth, and both behemoths shrieked in agonized fury at their disharmonious and unplanned union. The mountain shook, and fire rained from the ceiling. Monsters screamed and died by the dozens under the hail of rock and fire.

And then, suddenly and dramatically, everything fell still. The lava bubbled, but there was nothing stirring beneath the flames.

There was nothing stirring behind him, either. The smell of burning hair and flesh clogged the air. It was unpleasant, but perhaps not unexpected. Prometheus was a Titan, and they were mere monsters. They could not withstand a tenth of what he endured every moment of his life; a cataclysm such as this was completely beyond their ability to survive.

"Shame, that," grumbled a voice of ashes and soot. It was gruff and short, but not unkind. It rumbled like the volcano, yet with none of its fury. It was the voice of a god.

"Hephaestus," said Prometheus simply. Courteously, he turned and let his form shrink back down to its mortal form. "It's been a while, old friend."

The smith-god stood little more than six feet tall, but there was a power and solidity in his frame that belied the fragility in his limbs. His legs were undersized and twisted, even in their metal sheaths; his beard was short unkempt. Sweat glistened on his burnished dark skin; the muscles from millennia of smith-work rippled every time he moved. "Almost five thousand years," rumbled Hephaestus. "You were chained to a rock with vultures at your eyes."

"Did you really need to mention the vultures?"

Hephaestus shrugged his misshapen shoulders, turned, and walked away. "I've been working," he called over one shoulder. "You might want to see."

"Hephaestus."

The smith-god paused.

"You realize that I have come here to kill you."

Hephaestus eyed him. "And?"

Prometheus returned his gaze evenly. "Where do you stand?"

He snorted and ambled away. "Just follow."

The forge was situated atop four paths that met at the center of the chamber over a pit of bubbling magma. Steam hissed from the hot metal as Hephaestus heaved the glowing metal into the water. He lifted the object from the water and showed it to the Titan.

"A shield," said Prometheus.

"Aye." Hephaestus slid the massive shield onto his arm and flexed his hand experimentally. "I tired of making swords long ago." He raised his hammer and slammed it against the shield - and as it struck, the shield cushioned the blow, segments of the metal flexing . Then it snapped forward, and the hammer was knocked flying. "A shield with which one needs no sword."

The Titan laughed, inspecting the shield more closely. "Fascinating. How do you cushion the knock back on the release?"

"System of coils inside the handles redirect the impact and pushes it downwards instead of backwards." Hephaestus tapped a dull prong on the bottom of the shield. "This'll stay in the ground without digging deeper."

"Clever," commented Prometheus. "And by directing it to the ground, it will usable at almost every angle without mortals tearing their arms from their sockets. Except, of course, for over handed blows. If you raise the shield above your head, it will recoil forward."

Hephaestus tapped a small trinket hanging from his wrist. "This hangs downward when I raise the shield. The trigger won't activate as long as it hangs."

"Genius."

"Mhm."

The two men stood in silence for a moment, lost in thought.

"Come to the Titans," said Prometheus softly. "You don't want to fight. You don't need to perish. Come with me, and you will continue your works for millennia uncounted. You will perform miracles. You will have peers, for the first time in all eternity. Your mother threw you from Olympus - why must you die with them?"

Hephaestus nodded, looking down at his feet.

"Do you know why I never scrapped Talos?" he asked softly, after a moment. "He was a monstrosity. Incapable of anything but destruction. Yet I spent years laboring to create him. I used a hundred thousand tons of bronze and more. But in the end, all I could ever give him was the power to kill."

Bitterness crept into Prometheus's tone. "I know that feeling all to well," he said. "It is what I think every time I see mankind. I made them from clay and gifted them with fire. I watched as they grew. They learned so much. They could cross continents as though they were gods themselves. They learned the inner workings of the world. And then they use their glorious metal birds to bring down skyscrapers and towers. They use the innermost secrets of the world to unleash the power of the atom upon thousands and thousands."

Hephaestus laughed bitterly. "And the thunderbolt of Zeus? The sword of Ares? I made those. The armies you raised? The blood of thousands is on our hands. No, I was not ashamed of Talos, I did not want to destroy him because he represented everything about myself that I hated. The power of creation should not be used to destroy. He was the embodiment of my shame."

"Then why not change him?"

"Hah!" Hephaestus laughed shortly. "You know better than that. I shaped him with my hammer until he fit the shape that he was meant to have. Only a fool recasts the bronze twice. When it relearns its nature, half its soul is lost."

"Yet when it breaks, can it not be reforged?" Prometheus leaned forward. "My creations have gone astray, Hephaestus. Let you and I remake them. They can learn so much from us. They pollute the planet, they destroy one another - they waste our gifts of machine and fire. Let us teach them to have respect once more."

"How I wish that I could accept," said Hephaestus softly. "But I have no right to live, when my fathers perish. I have no right to go on after my sons have fought and died for their beliefs." He edged his hammer, and his body began to glow with power. "When the telekhines used my forge to remake the blade of Kronos - I could have stopped them. I could have razed this forge to the ground. Yet I did not. I could not bear to destroy my forge. I wonder - if I had, would the Titan Lord ever have risen?" His fingers caressed the edge of his shield, eyes lost in thought. "Would my sons ever have died?"

"Selfish," murmured Prometheus, eyes dark. "I gave fire to mankind, and I suffered for a thousand years because of it. Will you not do the same? Will you suffer the burden of your guilt to give gifts to mankind?"

Hephaestus smiled grimly. "You were punished by Zeus for a righteous act, and you suffered with the knowledge that you did well. I refuse to be forgiven for a sin for which I should burn in Tartarus as penance."

Prometheus reached up and gripped Hephaestus's shoulder. "You know that I must fight you if I cannot convince you," he said seriously. "This is your decision?"

Hephaestus grunted softly. "I have no desire to kill you," the smith god warned the Titan, "but I will do my damnedest to stop you from killing anyone else." He stepped back and picked up his hammer, leaving his beautiful shield on the forge untouched. His eyes glowed like dark embers in the shadows of his face as he swelled with power. "You will not leave here unscathed."

"I would not have it any other way." Prometheus stepped forward, and the stone beneath his feet cracked with the impact. The patterned clay rose to cover his body, and his hands curled into claw like fists. "Come."

* * *

He had always been alone.

He was a god, yes. He was powerful. He was strong. Ask of him, and ye shall receive. But he inspired fear wherever he went - more than even Hades. Even death was not so terrifying; it, at least, was tall and graceful and terrible. It, at least, was not deformed and misshapen. But there was a warmth in him - a core of gentle tenderness that was kept alive by the dancing flames of the forge. Loneliness left an empty pit of cold deep within him; it was only in fire that he could find solace.

It warmed and comforted him. It made him feel alive.

His first lover had been a woman on the isle of Cyprus, in the days before it had become inhabited by the Turks as well as the Greeks. She was the wife of an old chieftain - the youngest wife of twelve. He could still remember as she watched him stoking the forge fires from the edges of the forest, slender hands pale in the cold. He could still feel the warmth as she pressed against him, leaning on his shoulder, watching the plowshare take shape in the flames - a gift from him to her, the first gift he had ever given. Her warmth had stayed with him long after she was gone, and she had lived on in his son, even after she died - his very own child. His.

And he had remembered the numbness when Thanatos had come to take them away at the end of their lives. He could remember the emptiness as the forge fires roared in the snowy courtyard where he had made their home - the emptiness in his bones, the deep emptiness that could never be filled, even as he focused every last ounce of his being on the metal beneath his hammer.

It was the first time he could not drown his pain in the act of creation and the warmth of the flames.

His power was a bellows within him. He exhaled, long and hard - and energy surged from his true divine form, force without direction, fury without target. The lava hissed; jagged cracks raced up the wall, and boulders tumbled from the roof to splash into the magma, sending red-hot drops through the air. His energy was raw and full of all of pain and rage and despair at his helplessness. But he was a mere god. What could he do against a Titan?

He sought his strength in fire. Prometheus had created the flame.

Hephaestus stood with a nimbus of flame around him, body dark, beard wild, legs cast in bronze and iron. His massive hammer rung like a bell as it struck out, and a fiery explosion seared the sides of the mountain black. But Prometheus was a being greater still. His leathery skin was mottled green and tan; his eyes were wide and round and red in his smooth face. The suit and tie were long since gone; the Titan was surrounded by a maelstrom of clay, half-formed shapes appearing and disappearing from within its depths. Nothing about him was remotely human. Every last bit of him shone with a foreign power and intelligence. His form was alien. Reptilian.

So this is a creature older than mankind.

Prometheus struck out with a massive hand, and Hephaestus countered with the hammer, deflecting the blow. The Titan's whirling vortex of power brushed against the god; Hephaestus staggered backwards, his sight clouded.

It's beautiful.

Hephaestus was a symbol. An idea. He was a construct of humankind, a channel for their creativity and ingenuity. In him resided all the force of the human race. The Titan was no construct, no projection. Prometheus was an entity unto himself. Humankind created the gods; Prometheus created humans. He was the grandfather of all that the Fourth Age represented, limited and yet unrestrained by it.

My shield.

Hephaestus feinted, and then swung low and hard. The hammer crashed into Prometheus's side and lifted the Titan from his feet, knocking him into the air. Prometheus rebounded from the wall and landed in the magma. Though the broiling liquid hissed and steamed, neither the clay nor the Titan's flesh melted from its touch.

Why did I take up my hammer instead of my shield?

The strength that was Prometheus struck out with a blow from the mind that struck with all of the power that had forged the world. Hephaestus countered with the hammer that had forged swords and axes, arrows and spears. They were pinpricks in the hide of a myth, a legend. Hephaestus was blown backwards with unimaginable power, staggering. The Titan gestured; the earth swelled to bind him.

Why would I choose to kill instead of choosing to die?

Prometheus raised the other hand; the magma stirred and bathed Hephaestus with liquid flame. The smith-god called to him the memory of breastplates and plate skirts, chain mail and war-helms, and his skin grew tough and hard. He shed the flames like water. One blow of the hammer shattered the clay that had made bonds around his feet; another swipe of the hammer sent shards of razor-edged stone flying through the air like shrapnel. Pure energy blazed around Prometheus in a flaming aura, and the rock was burned to ash before it ever reached him.

I am going to die, aren't I?

The thought didn't frighten him. It was merely intriguing. Perhaps even vaguely amusing, in a twisted sort of way. The god of death was dead, and still Hephaestus would die. Hades must have been a charlatan, he thought wryly.

Prometheus's touch burned him to the core. The fires of Etna were mere flames; they were physical, mere molecules that vibrated at high speeds. The flame of Prometheus burned at the mind. A touch of it had wakened mankind from their clay forms. It had given life to the lifeless. It had done wonders. What was a lame smith-god, when compared to that?

"One favor that I ask of you, old friend," said Hephaestus softly. "One last gift."

The Titan's eyes glowed red in the maelstrom of the volcano.

"Do not bind my soul to this weapon." Hephaestus let his hammer fall from his grasp as his skin melted and puddled on the floor of the forge. His voice was hoarse "And when you meet my sons in battle, I know that I cannot ask you to spare them. But tell them that their father loves them, and that he is so, so sorry." His legs gave way, and he knelt before the Titan. "Please."

Prometheus nodded once, and Hephaestus closed his eyes.

And then all was silent.


End file.
